Read Online The Believers by Zoë Heller - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Zoë Heller
Tags: Fiction, General, Fiction - General, Psychological, Psychological fiction, Family Life, Domestic Fiction, New York (N.Y.), Married People, Parent and Adult Child, English Novel And Short Story, Older couples
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sorry," Karla said, wringing her hands. "I wasn't--"
"Oh, for God's sake ," Audrey hissed, "don't stand there looking like a smacked arse. You're the one who's meant to have the bedside manner."
"Give her a break, Mom," Rosa said quietly.
Audrey continued to glare at Karla. "Go on, then. Talk to him!"
"Leave her alone, would you, Mom?" Rosa said.
" Excuse me?" Audrey turned to her slowly.
"You keep picking on her," Rosa said. "It's not fair."
"It's all right," Karla said. "Honestly..."
Audrey folded her arms. "Oh, I see. Now that you've finally graced us with your presence, you want to instruct me on how to behave, is that it?"
"I just don't think you need to be such a bitch to Karla, that's all," Rosa said.
"Don't fight," Karla pleaded.
Audrey took a step toward Rosa. "Did you call me a bitch ?"
A tiny tremor started up in Rosa's lower lip. "I was just saying--"
"Get the fuck out of here!" Audrey screeched.
Rosa hesitated.
"Go on!" her mother shouted. "Piss off!"
Rosa walked slowly over to the door. "That's right!" her mother called after her as she left the room. "Good fucking riddance!"
It had rained briefly while Rosa was in the hospital, and as she walked to the subway station, fizzing with adrenaline and indignation, the trees along Henry Street wept icy droplets of water on her head. Her mother was intolerable. Intolerable . She was becoming, in her old age, like one of those paranoid despots who see in every minor disobedience the seeds of a full-scale insurgency. You threw a pebble; she brought out a howitzer. Rosa would never forgive her for this.
As she turned onto Clark Street, her phone rang. It was Raphael, calling from the GirlPower Center.
"Are you okay?" he asked. "What's happening?"
"I don't know. He's still unconscious."
"Fuck. Do you want me to come to the hospital?"
"No. I'm on my way home now. I had an argument with Mom. She threw me out."
"What?"
"She was giving Karla a hard time, so I told her to stop it and she freaked."
"She threw you out ?"
"Uh-huh."
"Jesus, Ro. Do you want me to meet you at your apartment?"
"Nah. I think I'm just going to go to bed."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, really. Look, I'm at the station now. I'll speak to you tomorrow."
Rosa got off the phone, feeling obscurely dissatisfied. Raphael's unquestioning faith in her version of events had only aroused her self-doubt. Already, as she passed through the ticket barriers and entered the blackened station elevator, she could feel her pleasurable anger beginning to surrender to remorse. She should not have picked a fight--not when her father was so ill. She had flattered herself that she was defending her sister, but Karla had not wanted to be defended. And she had called her own mother a bitch! She, who prided herself on never using that ugly, sexist word. Now, as a result of her own childish petulance, she had been exiled from her father's hospital room in his hour of need.
The train was just coming in when she reached the platform. The subway car she boarded was plastered with advertisements for a sinister-looking Manhattan dermatologist called Dr. Z. Beneath the multiplied gaze of the sad-eyed, translucent-skinned doctor, she contemplated her sins.
Guilt--genuine, personal guilt, as opposed to some abstract, mandatory sense of shame about being a rich white American--was a very recent addition to Rosa's emotional repertoire. For most of her life, she had been immunized against self-reproach by the certitudes of her socialist faith. All her moral disappointment had been reserved for others--schoolmates who failed to resist the temptation of South African fruit, college acquaintances who were insufficiently concerned about the fate of the Angolan freedom fighters, bourgeois parents who pretended to socialist virtue. As a teenager, she had often been urged by her father to temper her revolutionary zeal with some sympathy for human frailty. "Only ideas are perfect. People never are," Joel would tell her.
"Oh, for God's sake ," Audrey hissed, "don't stand there looking like a smacked arse. You're the one who's meant to have the bedside manner."
"Give her a break, Mom," Rosa said quietly.
Audrey continued to glare at Karla. "Go on, then. Talk to him!"
"Leave her alone, would you, Mom?" Rosa said.
" Excuse me?" Audrey turned to her slowly.
"You keep picking on her," Rosa said. "It's not fair."
"It's all right," Karla said. "Honestly..."
Audrey folded her arms. "Oh, I see. Now that you've finally graced us with your presence, you want to instruct me on how to behave, is that it?"
"I just don't think you need to be such a bitch to Karla, that's all," Rosa said.
"Don't fight," Karla pleaded.
Audrey took a step toward Rosa. "Did you call me a bitch ?"
A tiny tremor started up in Rosa's lower lip. "I was just saying--"
"Get the fuck out of here!" Audrey screeched.
Rosa hesitated.
"Go on!" her mother shouted. "Piss off!"
Rosa walked slowly over to the door. "That's right!" her mother called after her as she left the room. "Good fucking riddance!"
It had rained briefly while Rosa was in the hospital, and as she walked to the subway station, fizzing with adrenaline and indignation, the trees along Henry Street wept icy droplets of water on her head. Her mother was intolerable. Intolerable . She was becoming, in her old age, like one of those paranoid despots who see in every minor disobedience the seeds of a full-scale insurgency. You threw a pebble; she brought out a howitzer. Rosa would never forgive her for this.
As she turned onto Clark Street, her phone rang. It was Raphael, calling from the GirlPower Center.
"Are you okay?" he asked. "What's happening?"
"I don't know. He's still unconscious."
"Fuck. Do you want me to come to the hospital?"
"No. I'm on my way home now. I had an argument with Mom. She threw me out."
"What?"
"She was giving Karla a hard time, so I told her to stop it and she freaked."
"She threw you out ?"
"Uh-huh."
"Jesus, Ro. Do you want me to meet you at your apartment?"
"Nah. I think I'm just going to go to bed."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, really. Look, I'm at the station now. I'll speak to you tomorrow."
Rosa got off the phone, feeling obscurely dissatisfied. Raphael's unquestioning faith in her version of events had only aroused her self-doubt. Already, as she passed through the ticket barriers and entered the blackened station elevator, she could feel her pleasurable anger beginning to surrender to remorse. She should not have picked a fight--not when her father was so ill. She had flattered herself that she was defending her sister, but Karla had not wanted to be defended. And she had called her own mother a bitch! She, who prided herself on never using that ugly, sexist word. Now, as a result of her own childish petulance, she had been exiled from her father's hospital room in his hour of need.
The train was just coming in when she reached the platform. The subway car she boarded was plastered with advertisements for a sinister-looking Manhattan dermatologist called Dr. Z. Beneath the multiplied gaze of the sad-eyed, translucent-skinned doctor, she contemplated her sins.
Guilt--genuine, personal guilt, as opposed to some abstract, mandatory sense of shame about being a rich white American--was a very recent addition to Rosa's emotional repertoire. For most of her life, she had been immunized against self-reproach by the certitudes of her socialist faith. All her moral disappointment had been reserved for others--schoolmates who failed to resist the temptation of South African fruit, college acquaintances who were insufficiently concerned about the fate of the Angolan freedom fighters, bourgeois parents who pretended to socialist virtue. As a teenager, she had often been urged by her father to temper her revolutionary zeal with some sympathy for human frailty. "Only ideas are perfect. People never are," Joel would tell her.
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